Interview with a Vampire
by Destiny Chaser
Summary: In an attempt to manipulate Persephone in order to gain more power, Smith instead finds his inner self at her caprice. Contains discussion of NeoSmith slash.


Disclaimer: I don't own The Matrix; the Wachowskis do. Simple as that.  
  
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Author's Note: To mark one year since all that stuff with the Matrix sequels, here's the first of two fics I've released at the exact same time, along with some fan art that you can find linked on my profile. This story basically concerns a meeting which I had originally thought of putting in a fan-comic where the more fabulous denizens of the matrix would take centre stage – hence the fleeting presence of werewolves and a focus on Persephone. An examination of Smith's increasingly chaotic human side, and my first overt look at his sexuality. Discussion of slash imminent – note an emphasis on "discussion". Please R & R! [Oh, and those parts which are written like "so" were originally italicised, but I'm not sure how to do italics on FF.net. Sorry for any confusion!]  
  
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"Interview with a Vampire"  
  
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In a matter of minutes he was in there, cursing her, slamming the door on a concerned staff member's face. The cleaners scurried for the exits like cockroaches, snatching as many glasses and bottles as they could on their way out to imply that they had not been scared into retiring to the kitchens. Persephone heard the furious clatter of pans in sinks at closing time as the doors swung momentarily on their hinges and turned her eyes to her husband expectantly. She injected a sort of spiteful innocence into her expression as she did so. In situations such as this, she knew from experience that it was best to tease and approach the enemy with an air of slight joviality.  
  
'You realise, of course,' the Merovingian scowled, 'that you have just caused a whole succession of utterly unnecessary problems.'  
  
'Yes-'  
  
'Several of our best men have been killed in one fell swoop, you have practically given and gift wrapped the Keymaker, and furthermore-' He babbled impotently, partly in French, partly in some sort of German- Norwegian hybrid tongue that he had made up there and then because some words sounded inadequate in expressing his disgust.  
  
Persephone ignored him and picked up a wine glass, twirling it by the stem between thumb and forefinger. 'The damage is replaceable,' she told him eventually. 'Programme more men, and ... well, I daresay the Twins have disposed of the two other humans by now. Your silly Keymaker, for whatever purpose you wished to keep him for anyway, will be back within the hour.'  
  
'These things I cannot be sure of.' The Merovingian strode up to the head table of the restaurant and found himself a seat opposite Persephone. He crouched on it with his hands clasped before him, head pressed forward intently.  
  
'What on earth is wrong with you?' he asked.  
  
Persephone looked up from her glass. 'Whatever it is, it is down to what is wrong with you. You have changed so much. The moment we boarded that train, everything became so different. Like you were afraid of something. Maybe of getting caught, but we have been everywhere, it seems, and nothing like that has ever happened. You've become so angry, though.' She glared at him, remembering the woman from the restaurant. The things she had seen through glowing code - she was so disappointed, so furious with his shamelessness. 'Is it to do with the humans?'  
  
The Merovingian shook his head grimly, but even he had to admit the transition had been a great one. He remembered permission from the Machine City to come here, to the matrix. At that time his request had much to do with an assurance that the 'higher class' humans (which translated as those bodies which produced energy most efficiently and rapidly) were being kept entertained by their dream world – that their education at Harvard or Oxford was not giving way to potentially destructive philosophies and aspirations which, if satisfied, might result in a search for the truth which would no doubt attract disciples through their peers' rhetoric and the influence it exerted. He was there as something of a steward originally, ensuring that there were always harmless distractions in the form of fine wines and exclusive country clubs.  
  
All the time, Persephone had noted that he perceived humans as being in some way inferior. They were never fast enough, never clever enough. It was blissfully ironic that to all intents and purposes he appeared ridiculously human himself. Yet with his greater distancing came greater passions, and it was because of them that eventually he became a rogue, a threat to the system. He had proved his disloyalty in horrific ways by terrorising women through subtle methods that could never be traced by human deduction to him. Stress would drive some to suicide, and consequently crops would be lost. He informed an Agent of the most advanced programming that there was a secret organisation within the bourgeoisie that had managed to wake up one of their number. The Agent went with a few of his best men to a designated spot where they turned on him. The Agent was finally deleted in about ten different pieces by the time they had finished. These were the ways in which the Merovingian shook his fist at them all and warned them of the power he could unleash. If the machines could not live in fear of him, having long since progressed beyond that response, then at least they would be frustrated by his presence. The Agents, of course, simply regarded him as a particularly evasive target, but other programmes, rather than resisting him, had come to accept him and even associate with him. The Trainman who ferried programmes between the Machine City, Mobil Avenue, and the matrix was a case in point – whereas the Merovingian had before fought to gain his approval, his activities now fed into those of the Frenchman.  
  
'Things have changed a lot generally,' the Merovingian replied eventually. 'Is it so surprising that I should have too?' His voice rose. 'Is it so surprising that-'  
  
Suddenly, the double doors at the other end of the restaurant crashed open. They heard the doorman screech something about the restaurant being closed until seven o' clock that evening, followed by a loud bang. The Merovingian twisted about in his chair to see who had come in. Then his eyes widened and he stood. Persephone peered around his back but there was a pillar in the way.  
  
'What is it, mon cheri?'  
  
'Be quiet!' hissed the Merovingian through his teeth. She noticed at that moment that his fingers were jutting away at the little emergency button concealed below the left arm of his chair.  
  
Approaching them at a casual pace was what looked like, but certainly did not read like an Agent. The figure was dressed in a black suit with a tie and narrow sunglasses with very sharp, straight edges. He walked with cool but deliberate steps and his fists balled at his sides, and whilst his motions seemed to possess an individual character, his face, from where they sat at least, bore the same ultimately nondescript appearance as any other Agent's.  
  
His having half-crossed the room was heralded by the arrival of a dozen of the Merovingian's men, some armed, some empty-handed. A few directed fists and barrels towards the entrant, whilst two of the unarmed men darted up in front of the Merovingian and Persephone. Now on her feet, Persephone saw their shoulders rise up about their necks and first hands, then claws reach up to pull away the restraints of their blazers. Their uncovered arms were soon coated with thick grey fur that forced its way out of their follicles. She heard their snarls and visualised large yellowed teeth glossed with saliva. Not just man's best friend, she thought.  
  
'Is this the way you welcome all your guests?' said the figure tiredly. He looked around the men and werewolves with a sort of contented disinterest.  
  
'Honestly, what is it about Agents that makes them so very stupid?' muttered the Merovingian. 'You can leave or die, I'm not bothered either way.'  
  
'Oh, I know all about the ignorance of Agents. That's why I gave up being one a long time ago.' The figure drew in a large breath. 'It's Smith. I've come to talk to you about something.' He glanced about the gunmen and added, 'Something that will be of great interest to you, I have no doubt.'  
  
'Smith ... I've heard of you.'  
  
'How about that? My reputation precedes me.'  
  
'You are a virus. The Agents have been trying to destroy you for months-'  
  
'Albeit unsuccessfully.' He noted the Merovingian's look of horror. 'Oh, don't be surprised. I'll be around for quite a while yet. To get straight to the heart of the matter, I understand you're having a few problems with a certain human called-' They noticed that he stumbled a little on the name. 'Neo.'  
  
The Merovingian bit his lip. 'I have several contacts who will make such problems obsolete. The One fits his title well, and there's certainly no denying that he does things other humans cannot, but the fabric of human survival is so very delicate. In any case, he will die at some point. Whatever obtuse forces govern our world, all men must perish.'  
  
'Be that as it may, whilst he is alive there are still risks. Without the matrix or the Machine City, there will be nowhere for us. Has it not occurred to you that we are simply reams and reams of digital information? If the mainframe that can accommodate our codes disappears, so will we.'  
  
'The Machine City will never be destroyed.' The Merovingian stepped out from behind the two werewolves and started to approach Smith. The virus was still smirking at him, perhaps in the knowledge that his movement was one more of fear than of confrontation. The Merovingian tried to calm himself with images of the glowing alloy citadel, as much an organism as a habitation, stretching for miles and miles about the continental masses of Earth. It could not be destroyed, even penetrated. It was not heir to the same weaknesses that had limited human civilisation – the need for light, warmth or featureless flat land. Zion would surely become a ruin before it detected human vessels on the surface.  
  
'The machines are currently leading an attack on Zion that may destroy it for good. They are drilling downwards and eventually they will breech the city walls. But the humans are preparing for them. There are many hovercrafts to stave us off, not to mention other manually-operated machines that could obliterate a single sentinel in a few seconds. We have rarely allowed for the sort of ignorant ambition that drives that species. If in the most unlikely scenario they defeat our forces, they will use the drilled tunnel to attack us from within. They could gradually break us down with a passage like that. All I'm saying is that it is better to be safe than sorry.'  
  
The Merovingian was fuming. Persephone, however, smiled. She whispered something to one of the wolves, who promptly reverted back to his human form, his skin swallowing up the fur as if it had never been there. He nodded to her and drew near to another guard, muttering into his ear. Persephone sat back in her chair and enjoyed the show.  
  
'How do you know all this?' the Merovingian growled at Smith. 'About this Neo, about the attack on Zion?'  
  
'Trust me, I have eyes everywhere. I heard the Oracle talking to Neo not so very long ago and heard you mentioned, but her bodyguard must have sensed me there. She left before I had the chance to pick up any more.'  
  
'The eyes of the Oracle.' The Merovingian turned, hearing Persephone speak out behind him. She was looking intently at Smith with a half-smile. A murderous Mona Lisa. 'So you are looking for them too?'  
  
'Amongst other things,' said Smith, glad he had found a way in. 'You and I have common aims, it would appear.'  
  
Persephone got to her feet again and gestured to him. 'Whatever you propose, it sounds more interesting than the misadventures going on here.' The Merovingian started. 'The eyes of the Oracle. That sort of power I am greatly interested in.' She rose her voice. 'Let him through.'  
  
The Merovingian had clearly heard enough. He turned on his heel and glowered up at her. 'I will have nothing to do with this!' He looked back at Smith. 'I have seen your kind many times before. The masks you wear are not so impermeable as you think they are. I will not act in league with a virus and his attitude problem.'  
  
'Let's not keep the lady waiting,' teased Smith.  
  
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'Wine?'  
  
Smith glanced up from where he was sat in one of the library armchairs. He and Persephone had left the Merovingian in the restaurant cursing at no one in particular. From what Smith had gathered from Persephone's murmuring on the way through to the room, she wanted to delve a little deeper into the issue and take what she could learn from him and his inside knowledge for later use. Of course whatever she did divine would be useless. In a few days she would become as obsolete, as much of a small step as everyone else, in his path to victory.  
  
Smith declined the wine with a shake of his hand. Persephone poured him a glass anyway and set it down on the table beside his chair.  
  
'So what is your interest in this Neo character?' she asked, pouring herself a tall glass of the inky red substance.  
  
'He destroyed me.'  
  
'Ah.'  
  
'What kept me in the system were these strange sensations, like a greater life force within me. Whilst I felt like that I knew I could not simply submit myself to deletion. I could not bear to board that train and be taken back to the Machine City. I cut out the signals in my earpiece and stayed. I felt at more than full power, and it soon occurred to me when I saw what I was capable of that I should destroy the very person who almost took away everything. Since then I have become aware of a certain connection between us. I can almost do everything he can.' Smith flexed the muscles of his right hand. 'I can do more.'  
  
Persephone curled up on the couch, crossing her legs delicately. 'Something about him makes you very angry. Is it possible your interest lies more in him than in the preservation of the matrix and the Machine City?'  
  
'No,' Smith said quickly. Behind his glasses his eyes flickered across the floor. 'I am merely trying to preserve what is our domain. Let it not fall into incapable hands that might jeopardise the existence of programmes like you and I. The control that Agents exercise over the system is, believe me, a farce. How can you ever know how to handle power if you're ignorant? For a long time I couldn't understand the capabilities that I had. It seems that occasionally we are just as misinformed as humanity.'  
  
'How did you come to acquire this knowledge?' Persephone asked. As Smith began to open his mouth, she laughed gently. 'There is a theory I like about knowledge. I think it would interest you.'  
  
'Really?' Smith glanced over at the glass of wine beside him and picked it up by the rim. The code was elaborate, describing a certain deceptive mildness followed by an explosion of acerbic flavour. He read the different chemical compounds within it unconcernedly.  
  
'Yes. A theory of faith, where believers say that real knowledge comes from love.' Smith glanced over at her. 'I find human emotions fascinating. They make people so very delicate and vulnerable. They are the only way into someone. Men have been prepared to go to war over them. Imagine that – over just feeling a passion so great that you had to act upon it.'  
  
Smith's mouth fell open as he searched momentarily for the words. 'That is exactly why we have become the dominant species, so to speak. I don't need to feel anything. I don't. We are a very precious commodity – rational thinkers.'  
  
'I find it funny you should talk like that when I sense something very unusual about you. Your knowledge didn't just come from reason, did it?'  
  
Smith replaced the wine on the table and drew himself up in the chair uncomfortably. 'I have to say I don't think much of your theory.'  
  
'No,' laughed Persephone. 'A theory is a theory. It is a matter of principle, nothing more. Still, what a thing to ponder upon...'  
  
'Let's discuss the business at hand, shall we?'  
  
Persephone's voice became harsher. 'This is the business, though. No? Isn't it? I think it is.' Smith started to get to his feet, shaking his head. He could not look her in the eye all of a sudden. 'I see a very tangled web forming here. Don't lie to yourself. Are you afraid that he knows?'  
  
'You're talking nonsense.'  
  
The way into the Merovingian's skin had obviously been a dead end. Skin was the right word here – once the Merovingian and this woman had enabled him to get clear access to the levels of power he required, once the matrix was unravelled before him with all its strata and input and output routes, their bodies would be just another set of receptacles for his spreading self. With the system's pillars of power and its humans at his mercy, he would be able to steer the conflict between the machines and men in a whole new direction, and all involved would have no choice but to submit.  
  
From an agent, to this. The forbidden fruit had been worth picking. Looking at Persephone's leering face, he just wished fewer people had tasted it before him. He strode towards the door, still ignoring her.  
  
'Perhaps I would do better to speak with your husband,' he concluded and tried to pull the door open. It held steady. He tried pushing it instead, simultaneously forcing down on the hinges and the rising sense of desperation in his stomach. It was locked. He could not remember her having locked it, but he did not plan to play the trapped victim. He raised his fist and aimed it at a suitable point on the door.  
  
Persephone, however, managed to catch his hand before it collided with the wood. The pain apparently did not affect her – she seemed to have gained some supernatural strength from the upper hand she now possessed.  
  
'Why so eager to escape? I thought you had business here,' she said superciliously. 'I didn't realise talking about the very man you plan to destroy could get someone so uptight.' Smith turned to glare at her with a scowl across his face. 'You clearly want my help in some way, and if knowledge is what gives you power, then I need to know more about your purposes.'  
  
Faster than he could respond she had her arms around him, the sensation of the fingers against his back sending an icy shock up his spine. Through the kitchens of the restaurant, reinforcements charged towards the room, upsetting pans of boiling water, kicking aside trolleys of the cook's speciality gone to waste with the restaurant's early closing. For a moment there were emergency signals and summons running through his head, then nothing. It was as if his mind had been obliterated. He realised Persephone's lips were on his, somehow sucking out his code. At first he tried to pull away, but then something was introduced back into him. Something extra applied by the woman that tapped into his deeper consciousness, and all those things which he repressed. The lips acquired a new taste and scent too familiar to him. He heard her exhale loudly, and yet the breath sounded deep, almost masculine. His world was reduced to his senses and a tiny guiding memory, and in that short space of time before she stepped back again, he could not have supposed that he had been touching Persephone all the while.  
  
On loss of contact, his mind seeped back. He discovered that Persephone was holding his shades behind her back. Two wide, ice-blue eyes had been exposed, telling a hundred hidden stories. A tide of weakness passed over him, and he found his head suddenly resting upon a satisfied Persephone's shoulder. He could hear the other Smiths shunting the door with their shoulders, but could do nothing. So drained. This was bad. He needed to sit down.  
  
Persephone laid him out on the armchair and returned to the sofa. She threw his glasses back to him in a careless toss.  
  
'So,' she said with a large grin, 'there were things you weren't being quite so honest about.'  
  
'How far did you go?' panted Smith, replacing his shades.  
  
At that moment, the door crashed to the ground and a group of five Smiths filed inside. Their initial instinct was to head straight for Persephone, but they were caught off-guard by seeing one of their number apparently knocked witless.  
  
'To think,' smirked Persephone, slipping little more than a cursory glance towards them. 'Two minutes ago that might have surprised me.'  
  
The first Smith's eyes dropped in shame. He was conscious that part of his mind was still missing, but he was too weak for restraint. 'I know every contour of his body. I knew it so well before ... even after my hiatus I could tell all the ways it had changed. I remembered his smell so vividly – it leads me to him every time. Humans,' he said, his face contorting. 'Humans are foul. They produce the most revolting odour – surely you must have noticed it – coming from every part of them. They stink of digestion and sweat, and they only make it worse by applying these ridiculous chemicals to try and cover it up.' His voice grew weaker again. 'He's just the same, but there's something different about him, something ... better?'  
  
The other Smiths looked at one another questioningly. A few shook their heads, whether of disapproval or confusion it was not entirely clear.  
  
'I look at him, and I'm not even remotely physically attracted. The only thing that I can see beauty in is the intricacy, the irony of this matrix. All the same, he and I are connected in a way that I cannot explain.'  
  
One of the Smiths spoke up from behind Persephone. 'I must gain control of this system. Only then will all the contemptible aspects of the matrix be removed, only then will the program be perfect. I can see permanent darkness – a state inhospitable to humanity. Only when we begin to realise that the matrix is not so much a human distraction as a canvas for creation and control will its full potential be reached. Machines can survive in other ways – they are the most advanced entities on the planet – but I will not tolerate my dependence on the same thing that sustains those grotesque lumps of flesh any longer.'  
  
'If the matrix,' began the Smith in the armchair, 'is made an impossible habitation for humans, I will no longer have to face him. This ridiculous state of painful confusion will end.'  
  
'That's not important,' argued another Smith.  
  
'It is. Deep inside, it really is.'  
  
The other Smiths glowered, but Persephone noted that not one of them was prepared to respond verbally. She drank the remaining wine in her glass – feeling no sensation as its code synthesised with her own – and got to her feet.  
  
'This is all very fascinating,' she said. 'However, I believe I have seen enough. This game is getting a little tiring.'  
  
The seated Smith's lip curled in disgust at his psyche's outpouring being regarded as something so trivial. However, he also felt a sort of disconcerting compulsion; the same sort of force that impels you to open the abattoir door, full in the knowledge that you will find something engaging but nevertheless horrific behind it. He realised this woman had had some secret agenda all along, some unvoiced interest in him. She had tapped in that part of him which he fought to maintain the greatest control over, and worse still he could not be sure what end she planned to use it to.  
  
His consciousness had completely returned now, and he had already assimilated himself once more with his other selves. He felt the network of himself, internally and externally, with all connections restored and secured. It was like regaining the use of several paralysed limbs. He glared up at Persephone.  
  
'What is this?'  
  
'Acquisition of professional knowledge,' murmured Persephone. 'How can I trust someone I suddenly find myself in league with if I do not know them?' She smirked and added as an afterthought, 'A simple exercise of common sense a self-pronounced rational thinker such as yourself should keenly encourage.'  
  
'Do not think you have made me vulnerable,' the first Smith hissed, standing up from the armchair. 'Your perversities are more pathetic than they are damaging, believe me.'  
  
He led the group out of the room in silence. Persephone watched them leave, then turned her eyes towards the attendant standing in the corridor. For a few moments he seemed unable to tear his attention away from the door so cleanly smashed off its hinges, but on hearing Persephone clear her throat expectantly, he came in with a tray of tea carried in slightly shaking hands. He had never seen perfect sextuplets before.  
  
'No tea,' Persephone sighed. 'Just bring me some more wine.'  
  
'Yes, ma'am.' The tea was quickly taken away to be disposed of, the attendant carefully checking the corridor to ensure all was quite normal before he ventured down it.  
  
Persephone looked at the empty glass thoughtfully. This encounter must, she knew, prove to be of some amusement soon. She felt that time was running short – something strangely indistinct but strong that she had drawn out from that virus's head confirmed that he planned to make some great change to the system in the near future. Whatever it was (and she marvelled at how much he had managed to disclose even when he was essentially at her mercy), it was bound to have some effect on her freedom. She consoled herself in the knowledge that their connections within the matrix were so diverse and strong that they were bound to come once more into the company of the humans' apparent saviour, or else one of his associates. She would utilise this newly found knowledge subtly – a few drops of poison drizzled over the conversation to remind them that she had power over the situation.  
  
A man, or a woman, is not hard to break. All it takes are a few tactically placed words to have them reeling back on themselves. Have to do it soon, for the game to be any good. To feel, multiplied by a million, the thrill of narrowly dodging the last snake on the way to square 100.  
  
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"I will not give her the chance to play that card against me.  
  
"It's only a minor irritant that may be easily eradicated, but an irritant all the same.  
  
"In a few days' time, this world will be silent of emotions and weakness.  
  
"Silent, some inner part laments, save for the tiniest of frustrated screams that mourns insanity.  
  
"She does not oppress me; the truth of it does."  
  
There was no choice but to remove any possibility of that truth ever surfacing until the last moment, perhaps, in the lack of restraint provoked by obvious, inevitable victory.  
  
He could hear the innermost self echoing something he had once picked up with some interest over the confused squall of the matrix: "I wish I could walk in just at that moment. So right then, you'd know it was me."  
  
Except this time, it was no question of wishing.  
  
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Sensation against his fingers. Cool and wet, shuddering as the heavens erupted above it in an electronic spasm of light. Just as he had thought – perfection came by means of submission.  
  
Somewhere inside Smith, someone was laughing in mad victory.  
  
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A.N.: Yes, I admit that there was some pretty dumb imagery in there (but notice that there was no recourse to the amusing simile – "Smith's obligation to confess generated the same sort of pain you get when you accidentally staple your tongue to the wall". Hehe, love that one.) As an explanation, I did always find Snakes & Ladders one of the most thrilling, if not charmingly simplistic, games of my youth. Plus I couldn't exactly compare the fic to Cluedo at that stage. Also, although I have never truly found slaughterhouses enthralling, the phrase "pork production by applied mathematics" has always had to me an irresistible and grotesque fascination. And – no, enough with my aimless ranting already! I hope you'll leave a review and I thank you for your time spent doing so. 


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